Every door stayed locked and required the right clearance for access.
I used my all access keycard to take the elevator to the eighth floor.
Grateful the CIA didn’t think the elevators needed music, I contemplated what I might learn when I opened the files on the disc.
Unable to concentrate, my eyes kept darting to the book sitting beside my laptop.
What did Gibson find?What had he confirmed?
After berating myself for not focusing, I packed up and left. I’d work from home for the rest of the afternoon.
While I was in Dallas, my home was a hotel room decorated in muted colors with two queen beds and a wheezy AC unit. It wasn’t much, but it was the only home I had in the US. I couldn’t see a reason to drain my savings to pay for an apartment in DC when I was overseas living in government owned housing.
I glanced at my black bag, wishing I could access the disc with nothing but the powers of my mind.You’re losing it, Winchester.
I used the family ties to the case to justify my obsession. Nina worked for Mary, so my aunt and uncle would protect her.
John had made that abundantly clear when he rushed to her side—not mine—after she spilled hot coffee all over me.
Those fucking cherries.
I’d never spent so much fucking time trying not to think about a fucking fruit in my entire life.
That dress.
It hugged her curves in all the right places.
“Shut it down.” I ordered myself as I pulled out of the underground parking garage. “She’s too young for you.”
And really, what did I have to offer? A shitty attitude and enough baggage that even I didn’t always like being around me.
I cranked the radio volume during the short drive to the hotel, but it failed to drown out my unruly thoughts.
The information on the disc didn’t disappoint, and I couldn’t wait to talk to Gibson.
Later at the bar, I asked Gibson if the lab had identified the bodies.
“Not yet, but we’ll know soon.”
I nodded. Not having a positive ID worked in our favor. If they identified the murder victims as Travis and Melissa Singer, the CIA would reopen their case.I’ll be flooded with questions.
Questions I couldn’t answer. Yet. I’d bitten off more than I could chew with the two combined cases, but there was no turning back.
“What about the treasure?” I felt like a kid talking about pirate themes.
“I only know what the Singer’s mentioned in their diary.” Damn it, I’d hoped Gibson had found more information since handing over the disc.
“How high is your confidence that Nina Novak is the Singer’s missing daughter?” G asked.
“High enough.”
Gibson hadn’t found concrete evidence of Nina’s birth, so we couldn’t confirm she was Nina Singer, but I was confident enough to move forward as if we had.
Fucking cherry earrings.
“How the fuck has she stayed off the radar all this time?” My question was rhetorical, but he answered anyway.
“No one knows who she is.”
